


Only You Could Be That Clever

by chemma66



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, I'm too chicken to write Johnlock smut just yet, M/M, Steamy, just barely, really it's a tease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-19
Updated: 2013-07-19
Packaged: 2017-12-20 16:23:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/889348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/pseuds/chemma66
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson is struggling with his feelings, but he need not worry - his friend Sherlock Holmes is always a few steps ahead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Only You Could Be That Clever

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Johnlock and technically the first fanfiction I ever wrote - it was stuck in my head and I just had to get it out. It's more of a random scene/drabble than anything but I wanted to share it anyway.
> 
> Many many thanks to my lovely betas Mackenzie and Megan. I love you both more than words can express: your patience, your support, your time - it all means so much to me.
> 
> And thanks to all of you for reading! I have a Sherlock/Moulin Rouge AU in the works, so your comments and encouragement would really, really help. If you like what you see, please let me know, and I will write more~~ I'm selfish like that...
> 
> John, Sherlock, and all of those lovely things belong to the BBC, Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, etc. I am just simply inspired by their amazing work.
> 
> Enjoy, my dears.

John walks into the flat and realizes - almost too late - that this is not the night he was hoping for. A quiet cup of tea, maybe Sherlock yelling at the telly for a bit, and eventually retiring to bed at a decent hour. No such luck seems to be in his future.

Sherlock is lounging across the couch... and by lounging he actually means sprawling. And sprawling across the couch means only one thing: Sherlock Holmes is incredibly bored. And John Watson will be the one who endures it.

John walks cautiously over to the mostly immobile figure, taking in the sight and trying to decide if the feral animal is safe to approach. The quicksilver eyes snap to his form. He stops.

"John."

John can't help but smile, just a tentative twitch of his lips for, that familiar noise. His name sounds so much better coming out of that brilliant mouth, even if it makes him worry and rejoice all at the same time. The detective makes it different and perfect, as if it's not a name at all, but a declaration.

And he had to stop himself right there, because his thoughts were once again getting away from him. That had been the point of his impromptu excursion in the first place: taken a breather, get some space, control his wandering thoughts...

"Sherlock. You alright?" He asks in return, the only logical response he can muster.

The answering scoff makes John feel ridiculous, as he finds was most likely intended. As if he was stupid enough to ask. Which he was.

"Bored," Sherlock replies, closing his eyes again. His form remains still, like the interruption had not even occurred.

John lets another smile creep onto his features, given the freedom of being unobserved for the moment. It had been a complicated couple of weeks, and John had certainly felt the strain of the last case: the late nights, the intense research, the sporadic changes in mood of his flatmate... it hadn’t helped him make sense of any of the ridiculous thoughts that had been tormenting him recently.

He turns towards the kitchen, intending to make that mythical cup of tea after all, when a touch to his side stops him.

"John."

It's the same sound, almost at the same volume, but entirely different. John's breath catches in his throat as goosebumps erupt across his arms where the contact occurred. His gaze shifts to the floor as he gathers himself. Can't have the fantastic detective knowing how much he affects him. Then again… maybe he already…

"You uh, need something? I was going to fix a cuppa," John answers, almost too hastily. Dammit. He can feel himself being obvious.

"You've been away for a long time, John. You said you were just stopping by the shops but…" Sherlock moves his touch, just the tip of his fingers, from John's side to his arm as he begins his deductions. 

"You stopped by Tesco, wandered around, and then went to Regent's Park. You walked for… approximately an hour. The air was damp but it didn't rain until the end of your walk. You quickly retreated into the nearest pub, the original intent of your introspective adventure, but one which you generally avoid due to your sister's habits. You spent some time there, given your current state and the smell of your clothes...”

Sherlock’s hand slides to the sleeve of his jacket before moving to the delicate skin above his wrist. John struggles to keep his heart rate under control.

“...something - perhaps the growing crowd - took you back onto the streets and to the shops, but before the rain turned into a serious downpour. You picked up the milk and a few other items - nothing too heavy, given the marks on your arm - before returning quickly home."

John turned his face away, completely unsurprised by the perfect accuracy of Sherlock’s description. But what he didn't know - or hadn’t said - was that John had stayed away for an inordinate amount of time because he had things to _think_ about: like how Sherlock made him feel when he was under that impenetrable gaze, how he shuddered every time Sherlock touched him, how he felt cold whenever he was away from the brilliant man for more time than was absolutely necessary. 

His concern for him had grown to caring, his interest grown to fascination. It was bordering on dangerous, and John was all too aware of it at the moment. His feelings had morphed into something dangerous - affection. Sentiment. Something Sherlock Holmes would never condone. He had tried to run away for a moment, hoping they’d dissipate. But his return had brought that reprieve to and end and only confirmed what he’d been dreading.

He was extremely attracted to his completely unattainable, positively uninterested, and undoubtedly _male_ flatmate.

"Of course, Sherlock. Amazing as always," he didn't mean to sound upset by it, but after his hours of introspection, the quirks which had endeared him to this man were becoming inconveniences. Sherlock would always know.

Leave it to the consulting detective with no social skills to pick up on his melancholy.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open once more, and even his head moved as he took in John's state. Apparently something he saw there triggered a reaction. 

Sherlock released his tentative hold on John’s hand, moving to sit up from his awkward position. He didn't say anything, just shifted his gaze from observing to questioning. It's all John needed to let him know that the detective was on to his train of thought.

"Just… leave it, Sherlock, alright? I had a rough night and I did some thinking. It's… nothing. It'll work itself out,' John rattled off an explanation, tearing his eyes away from the beautiful form on the couch. That man who unabashedly turned all of his attention onto the helpless doctor. Can't have that, especially not now.

John moved to the kitchen, intending to make that cup of tea after all, even if it killed him. The spot where's Sherlock's hand had rested left a terribly cold touch to his skin. He tried to ignore it.

He went through the motions: boiling the kettle, setting out the mugs, steeping the tea for as long as they both liked it. He put one out for Sherlock just out of habit. He would rather the cup go cold by his side than for him not to have one at all.

John focuses on the dark liquid, stirring away the dissolving sugar, before he notices the impending presence by his side.

"There's something on your mind, John. I can tell, even if I am slow with these types of things. I may be a sociopath, but I know--"

"Oh, forget all of that sociopath rubbish, Sherlock, you know it's not true.You're not fooling anyone," John blurts out, before he can stop himself.

"You're frustrated with me," Sherlock says, coming to the conclusion before John can even realize it himself.

"No, I'm just-- it's complicated, alright? You don't need to worry about it, so just leave it," John snatches his cup of tea from the counter and retreats to the living room before he can think anymore about it. He can count on Sherlock to drop it there, he knows it.

He can hear Sherlock puttering around in the kitchen, which he's used to, but what he doesn't expect is for the detective to join him back on the couch. He sits much too close. John's heart skips above its normal tempo.

"You've been especially withdrawn lately. Your answers are short, your criticism very to the point; no extraneous circumstances or residual sentimental concern. You're being more careful than you need to, but not saying exactly what you want," Sherlock explains, sipping his tea slowly.

John doesn't say anything. Why should he? Sherlock's figured out everything, always one step ahead. He'll get to the point eventually and determine their fate forever. John can only wait, always at his whim.

"I can only deduce that you are now uncomfortable around me, John. It's inconvenient," Sherlock says.

John's taken aback by the statement, but he knows that it’s founded in truth. It's true, really. Having to constantly hold himself back from his friend - or colleague, whatever they were - has made everything… slower.

What else can he do?

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'll stop," John answers. And he will. He'll distance himself from the man, get back to hitting on the ordinary folk in the local pub, get a few dates, and everything will be back to how it was.

But Sherlock seems to have different ideas; of course he would ruin John’s plans.

"Don't... do that. John. Please," His hand reaches out, hesitating, but eventually making his way to his side again. Tentatively reaching toward his thigh. Leaving the lightest amount of warmth there.

John stares at the hand, those long, alien fingers on his rough, human limb. They don't seem to belong, but it _feels_ right. 

He doesn't mean to, but he fidgets under the touch.

Sherlock misinterprets the movement as a rejection, but that can't happen. No. This chance, this connection can't drift away like all of the others. Sherlock sighs - or lets out a small breath, really - and his warmth begins to withdraw.

John's hand moves of its own accord, keeping Sherlock's in its place. They rest there, on top of his leg, for a long stretch of time. John's fingers twitch under the examination.

The heat turns into a burning. Johns gaze drifts to Sherlock's face, to those impossible cheekbones. The sharp eyes that catch everything. The dark eyelashes, the expanding pupils. 

"Sherlock, I…" John begins, but his breath seems to run out before he can finish. He loses himself in that gaze.

Time seems to have disregarded this moment. How long has he been staring? When did his gaze shift to to those perfect lips? That pointed cupid's bow that he's always dreamed of licking across, stealing the words from that clever mouth that's always running or never moving at all. 

Sherlock's lips part as he breathes in, his tongue swiping slowly across the bottom. His hand slowly drags up John's arm, inching toward his shoulder, stopping at his neck. 

John leans forward carefully, taking his time. Taking in every detail of this perfect moment.

He's inches toward those lips now, the lips he's dreamt about, fantasized about. He takes one last breath. Holds it. Moves forward.

When they connect, it's everything he could have wished for it to be: an explosion of feeling, flavors, sounds, motions. 

Sherlock sucks in another breath as John lets his out, drawing them closer to each other. They share each other's oxygen, as if that was intended all along. Sherlock's lower lip slips into John's mouth, where he sucks on it lightly. Sherlock moans, moving his other hand to join his right around John's jaw. He draws John closer, bringing him further into his space.

And John goes willingly, moving his hands around Sherlock's waist, clawing the detective into his lap. He tilts his head, attempting to gain further access into that delectable mouth. He parts his lips, exploring the shape of Sherlock's, who responds with a contented gasp. His mouth opens slightly to give way to John's tongue, which plunges hastily inside.

John hears a rough growl from between them, and realizes it's his own as his fingers grasp desperately at the thin waste before him. He pulls Sherlock closer and groans as their bodies make full contact.

Sherlock releases John's mouth at the sound, wrapping his arms comfortably around John's neck as he drags his mouth slowly towards his ear. John feels Sherlock's warm breath and shivers before the words come...

"Finally," Sherlock says, and if he wasn't half out of his mind, John would swear that the bastard almost sounds annoyed.

John moves his hips slowly under the tight constriction of the man above him, who gasps at the contact, and he smiles to himself.

Yes. Finally.


End file.
